


Let’s Get You Fixed Up

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Case Fic, Charity Auctions, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Pre-Series, Protective Sam Winchester, Teen Angst, qldfloodauction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He glances over at Dean, who’s slumped low, head tilted back, resting on the top of the leather bench seat, staring at the ceiling of the car, panting. “You’re okay. I gotcha. The job’s done. Don’t worry, okay? Let’s get you fixed up, all right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let’s Get You Fixed Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qultng1](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=qultng1), [nana56](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nana56).



> **_A/N:_** So. Um. Yeah. This is my stupidly-late auction fic for **qultng1** who won me on a bid at **qldfloodauction** on Livejournal way back in January 2011. I believe the winning bid was $20 (USD). Just to give you an idea of how long it’s been, **qldfloodauction** is now a deleted and purged journal. I guaranteed a minimum of 1k. However, since my poor recipient had to wait so long, I upped it to a minimum of 4k, or an additional 1k for each year she had to wait. **qultng1** , I believe you requested a casefic, in which Dean gets hurt and the guys work together. I hope this is somewhere in the ballpark of what you wanted because it was like pulling teeth getting this to work. Also, I’m so sorry this stupidly-late fill is unreasonably late and for making you wait to the point of giving up on me. I hope this little thing makes your day all bright and shiny!
> 
> As a note, this fic is set pre-series; Sam is almost 16 and Dean is 20, occurring in that ambiguous space between their birthdays. Also, I chose to use iron rounds, not salt because from my recollection, the salt-loaded shotgun is news to Sam in the early part of Season One. I could be mistaken but iron is still a deterrent to ghosts according to canon. *handwaves*
> 
> Special thanks to: **amber1960** for a look-through and telling me it wasn’t quite done when I thought it was and to **quickreaver** for a rock hard beta and taking something that was raw and mostly unedited and rusty from both time (I started this baby sometime in 2010 or 2011, I think…) and an ongoing writer’s block and making it at least somewhat shiny and polished.
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.

“Look into this, boys.” John slides a newspaper across the Formica tabletop towards them and stabs his fork into his eggs.

Dean takes the folded newsprint, teeth worrying at his lower lip as he reads. “Think it’s a poltergeist?” he says, looking up.

John shrugs. “Or a ghost.” He raises his white generic-diner coffee mug to his mouth and drinks. “Either way, it’s our kind of gig.” He exhales and sets down the cup. “There’s another hunt not too far out from here that Singer asked me to help out on — a Rugaru — and I’ll be going. I’ll be back next week… either Monday or Tuesday if everything goes well. This one is all yours.” He looks up at them, eyes probing theirs. Under the scrutiny, Sam sees Dean straighten, draw back his shoulders, squirming a little, still slightly favoring the left one and it’s clear that it’s still sore from when he’d twisted it wrong last week. On a hunt.

Sam takes a drink from his own coffee and tunes them out, thinking of the glossy Ivy-League college brochures he’s got stowed in the depths of his duffle. _Stanford_. _Princeton_. _Yale_. _Brown_.

**::: ::: :::**

The case appears to be as straightforward as they come: an angry, vengeful spirit haunting the house she’d died in. The details are a bit murky; it isn’t clear from the papers if she’d been murdered or committed suicide or even the circumstances surrounding it — a love affair gone bad, money poorly spent. In any case it doesn’t matter because:

“Salt’n’burn,” Dean says a little too loudly in the library, rocking back his chair on its two rear legs, eliciting a sharp glance from the girl shelving books. He flashes her a bright grin and she blushes tomato-red, haphazardly shoving books into their places and Sam feels a little sorry for her as she drops a book. Turning back to Dean, he kicks his brother hard under the table.

“What was that for?” Dean doesn’t half-yelp.

“Leave her alone,” Sam mutters. “Dad’s going to be back from hunting that Rugaru in two days and if we don’t this thing bagged, I’m not the one telling him it’s because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”

Dean glares at him. “And I’m not telling him it was because you had to wait until three in the afternoon on Friday afternoon because you had a history exam.”

“What about you? You had all week!”

“Dad said to work on this together,” Dean says sullenly, rubbing his left shoulder through the nylon jacket where he wrenched it on a hunt for a succubus a week ago. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam grumbles out.

Dean exhales. “So what d’you think? We do it tonight and then introduce you to Jack and Jose? A little excitement never hurt anyone. Live a little.”

“You’re underage too, technically.”

Dean shrugs, frowning. “Huh. Well, not according to my State of Nebraska driver’s license. ”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s a fake,” he hisses, kicking Dean’s ankle again.

“Closing!” the librarian announces and the lights flash on and off.

**::: ::: :::**

The salt-and-burn in the local graveyard goes like clockwork. They’re in-and-out in less than an hour — the dirt is packed with age but it isn’t muddy and Dean falls into an easy rhythm despite his sore shoulder. Sam crouches at the edge of the grave, holding the Maglite flashlight and keeping an eye out and an iron crowbar handy, but there are no drops in temperature, no disturbances, no manifestations, and neither of them are hurled into various inanimate objects, a fact that’s a total win, their lives considered. Dean uses way more lighter fluid than is necessary and he’s smug when they get back to the motel room, but Sam’s uneasy for reasons he cannot articulate.

**::: ::: :::**

The next morning, at the local diner, over scrambled eggs, bacon, and waffles, they hear there’d been more disturbances at the old Howard Mansion.

“But we wasted it,” Dean hisses at Sam. “What the hell did we miss?” He extracts the wrinkled, stained, folded papers from the deep pocket of his coat and shuffles through them.

“Maybe we didn’t miss anything. Maybe she just got restless when we mucked around with her grave?” Sam catches Dean’s skeptical gaze and huffs softly. “Or there’s a bit of her remains in the house.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “We’ll have to do it tonight.”

“Fuck.”

**::: ::: :::**

They wait until dark and it takes Sam less than a minute to jimmy the lock and get them in. The inside is all sheet-covered furniture and thick dust and burned-down black candles in the middle of painted symbols, mostly pentagrams. All the makings of an amateur summoning.

“God save us from the people who have no idea what the fuck they are messing around with,” Dean mutters, taking a step further into the room and making a sweep with his flashlight beam. He makes his way to a wall and begins feeling along it until Sam hears the click of a light switch and then a curse when nothing happens. “Don’t make it easy on us or anything…” Dean grumbles and Sam feels the temperature plummet about thirty degrees. Dean murmurs an expletive.

The woman is older than Sam’d expected and she really most definitely doesn’t make it easy, instantly throwing them both into opposite walls.

Sam shakes his head, locates his gun, and rises before she decides to come back for round two. He blasts consecrated iron into the ghost woman’s face, dispelling her, bullet holes peppering the wall behind her, buying them at least a few minutes. Sprinting across the massive Victorian atrium, he skids on the carpet runner and slides to an abrupt halt besides Dean’s prone, unmoving form. Crouching, he reaches out and touches Dean carefully. His older brother lets out a low groan and tries to push himself up, crying out as his arm buckles, his body crashing down on his shoulder. Sam winces as he realizes it’s the same joint that was busted last week.

“Easy.” Sam’s slides his hands around Dean, watchful for any other injuries. He avoids his brother’s left shoulder and arm, and eases him slowly upright until Dean’s sitting, slumped against the wall. “Jus’ take it easy. I gotcha. You’re good. You’re gonna be okay.”

Dean’s panting, pale as the sheet-draped furniture, sweat running in thick streams down his temples. “Mi’arm...” he moans quietly, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth while blanching yet another shade of gray-white.

Sam’s stomach flips as he realizes that Dean’s arm is lower than his right and bent at an odd angle. “Broken?” he manages, remembering the sharp crack he’d heard.

Dean nods, opens his eyes, the pupils blown with pain. “Pretty damn sure.” He gasps, breathes out slowly, guardedly, as he gently cups his elbow with his right hand, cradling his limb close to his torso. “Think s-shoulder’s dislocated too...” He leans his head back against the wall, letting out a cry as he shifts. “Fuck. Hurts like a bitch.”

“Hospital, then,” Sam whispers, knowing Dean’s not going to like it, scrutinizing his brother in a visual triage. He’s no doctor, but he’s seen enough in his short life that… yeah, Dean’s got a broken arm, his shoulder’s dislocated, and he’s starting to go shocky from the pain. Basically Dean needs medical attention, stat. And not the field stuff Sam can manage.

Dean clenches his jaw even tighter, something Sam didn’t think was possible. “Go for it. Pop it back in and then we’ll be fine.”

Sam stares at his brother in stunned silence. Then: “Hell, no, Dean. There’s no freakin’ way I’m popping your shoulder back in. Not with your arm like that. I’m so not messing with a broken arm. Maybe if it was just your shoulder, yeah, I’d chance it. But your arm...”

“Just set it. It can’t be any worse than the other shit you’ve done.”

“Are you crazy? Suppose there’s nerve damage. Or if… I mean, if I mess with it…” Sam exhales. This tactic wasn’t working on Dean. _Time to take out the heavy ammo_. “Suppose I was the one lying there. Would you try to fix it?”

“Are you on drugs? I’m not messing with something that could seriously damage...”

Dean trails off at Sam’s pointedly raised eyebrows.

“Right back at ’cha. Why is it so hard for you to believe that it goes both ways?” Sam reaches down, gets his hands around Dean. “You’d do anything for me. Can’t you see I’d do the same? It’s a two-way street, bro. C’mon let’s get you outta here.” Sam’s hauling his brother upright when —

“What the fuck? No, Sam.” Dean’s voice is sharp, edgy with anxiety. “We can’t quit. We gotta….”

“We gotta _what_?” Sam snarls out, his fuse running short with worry. “Permanently fuck you up?”

“Finish it.” Dean cuts him off, slipping his arm from Sam’s shoulders and lurching a step as he turns. He staggers, straightens. “We gotta finish it. Dad’ll be pissed if we don’t. ’Sides, whatever it is… we’re close. Otherwise she wouldn’t be so pissed.”

“Even Dad —” Sam starts but he knows it’s futile when he sees Dean’s face close off. “Shit!” He curses, fires another round of iron into the wispy white ether beginning to materialize. It dissipates. “Fine,” he snaps out. “But you’re going to be the one covering my ass. There’s no way you’re going poking around with your arm like that.” And it’s a sign of how bad it is when Dean accepts the gun without a murmur.

The ghost rematerializes and Dean’s reflexes are just a little too slow and he goes flying. So does Sam. For a moment, Sam remains where he’s fallen, slumped on the floor, dazed and blinking, temple throbbing where he’s hit it against the mantelpiece. He shakes his head, relieved when his vision focuses and his stomach doesn’t flip. He really doesn’t need a concussion. Not tonight. His limbs still work and there doesn’t seem to be anything broken. He considers it a win as he scrambles back to his feet. He takes stock of his surroundings, immediately searching out for his backup as Dad’s trained him from the start.

Dean’s crumpled up, unmoving. And even from this angle, Sam can tell his brother’s in a bad way.

“Dean!” The word is ripped instinctively from his throat and he rushes to his brother’s side. This was something John never had to teach him — _look out for your brother because no one else will cover his ass_.

Dean raises his head at the sound of his name and then he’s sitting up, supported by the wall behind him. Sam’s pretty sure he can see a dent in the drywall where Dean’s crashed into it. Dean lifts the gun, holding it with his good hand, and fires. Sam can feel the whiz of consecrated iron past his ear and he turns to see the ghost dissipate. He flashes a grin at Dean. Even sidelined with a broken arm, his brother’s still the surest shot this side of the Rockies.

“The shelf,” Dean rasps out suddenly and for a minute, Sam isn’t quite sure if he’s heard correctly. “That tree-thing,” Dean continues. “Over the fireplace. I bet that’s it. They used to do all kinds of wonky things with hair. I bet it’s hers.” Sam doesn’t have the chance open his mouth when there’s the sharp report of the sawed-off and he’s slipping on the slick floor back towards the fireplace before the ghost has time to reappear. He scrambles, finds the tree-thing Dean was talking about. It feels oddly crunchy and stiff under his fingers, and then she’s howling in his face as he torches it. He tosses the flaming tree-thing made of hair into the fireplace where it pops and splits and burns.

There’s a wail and a blaze of light and then nothing.

“Told you they did freaky things with hair,” Dean croaks and then crumples on himself. Sam’s there in a second. Dean’s curled over his arm in a way that really, really doesn’t look good.

“And you call me the Encyclopedia of Weird,” Sam whispers softly, keeping his voice even, soothing, as he kneels besides his brother. “C’mon, geddup, I gotta see.”

Dean shakes his head vehemently and Sam watches his brother swallow convulsively, huddling over his broken arm, cradling it against his body, but he sits up a little and Sam lets out a sharp breath of relief.

“How about we get that thing off?” Sam keeps his voice low as he reaches out and slides the coat off his brother’s good shoulder in a way that doesn’t brook argument. Dean instinctively shrugs his working limb out of its sleeve, but doesn’t make a move otherwise. Sam carefully, slowly, with all the gentleness he can muster, eases the coat off the swollen, dislocated joint. Even through his brother’s flannel shirt, he can feel the heat radiating from the injury. Dean whimpers, sounding like an animal, and Sam feels icy fear settle uncomfortably in his gut. Dean’s no wuss when it comes to pain, but for him to completely surrender to it…

“Easy,” Sam soothes, rubbing his brother’s good shoulder, sweaty shirts sticking to his hand. “It’s okay. I gotcha. It’s gonna be all right.” He takes a breath. “C’mon. Why don’t I help you out of that jacket before they have to cut it off. I’ll do all the work…” He’s aware he’s babbling but Dean doesn’t call him out on it and leans into him. And Sam knows that all danger is over. _Safe_ is when Dean can stand down.

“Fuck, Sam,” he manages, his breath tense and restrained.

Sam squeezes his brother’s uninjured shoulder. “Ready?”

Dean nods tightly, sucks in a sharp inhale that sounds almost like a sob, and holds it as Sam eases the sleeve over his bent elbow, exhaling when it comes free.

“Better?” Sam asks, not really expecting an answer.

To his surprise Dean lets out another sharp breath of air. “Yeah.”

“All right. Let’s get that arm looked at.” He holds the jacket uncertainly, studying his brother. He rolls it into a long strip, the softer inside facing out, and ties the sleeves around Dean’s neck, wrist supported in the loop. It’s a sign of just how messed up things are when Dean doesn’t seem to figure out what’s just happened until after Sam’s gotten the sling on and has him half upright.

“’Pala?” He gasps out, panting.

“Hospital,” Sam corrects, already supporting and guiding his brother towards the front door.

Dean’s white-faced, perspiring, as Sam folds him into the passenger seat.

“Shhh. You’re good,” Sam reassures him as he slides in behind the wheel. “Take a breather.” He glances over at Dean, who’s slumped low, head tilted back, resting on the top of the leather bench seat, staring at the ceiling of the car, panting. “You’re okay. I gotcha. The job’s done. Don’t worry, okay? Let’s get you fixed up, all right?”

“You’ve got school…” Dean’s voice is confused and lost and _young_ in that way Sam really, really hates. It doesn’t suit his brother.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.” He informs Dean gently. “And even if it wasn’t, believe it or not, some things are a bit more important at the moment than AP US History and Chem Honors.” _Like you_ , Sam doesn’t say as he guns the engine and flips open his cell, punching the luminescent ‘three’ that speed-dials Dad. Predictably, it defaults to voicemail without even ringing once. His father’s phone is off again. For a second, he has the compulsion to throw his own out of the window and run it over for all the good it does. Instead, he leaves a clipped message following the tone: “Dad? It’s Sam. Meet us in the ER. Dean’s down.” He jabs at the end button and tosses it into the backseat before his disgust can bleed into his voice. He gets that the hunts are important, that what they do save lives, but _still_... He glances over at his nearly unconscious brother as he eases the oversized tank of a car out of the narrow driveway. _Is it more important than your own kid?_

“So how bad is the pain? One to ten. Ten being the worst,” Sam asks when they’re riding down the minor highway that cuts through the no-name town. He technically isn’t sixteen yet and hasn’t taken his driver’s test, so he’s careful not to speed, not to break any traffic laws, not to do anything to arouse suspicion. But staying under forty-five within city limits is difficult with Dean control-breathing beside him. He knows the pain has got to be bad but he wants to hear his brother’s voice, to know that Dean’s still with him.

Dean startles, staring wide-eyed at Sam. “S-seven?” He manages to make it a question as he swallows, exhales. “Nothing I can’t handle. I can handle sevens easy.”

 _And isn’t that just a sad commentary about our lives right there_ , Sam thinks bitterly, but keeps the acidity out of his voice as he presses on. “Winchester scale or regular?”

“Winchester.” Dean fixes him a _what-did-you-think-stupid_ look.

Sam exhales, adding another two points to Dean’s answer, converting it to the slightly-more-reasonable hospital standard. _Nine out of ten_. Yep, it’s bad.

**::: ::: :::**

There’s hardly anyone in the waiting room but, apparently, a broken-arm-dislocated-shoulder combo ranks below — from what Sam can gather from snatches of conversation as he scrawls _Nick Mason_ on the bottom of the list at the nurse’s desk — the sheriff’s daughter giving herself and all her friends alcohol poisoning and hangovers of varying degrees for her twenty-first birthday party. As he collects the clipboard with its packet of blank forms for insurance and medical history, Sam wants to tell the groaning girls to go fucking sleep it off somewhere else.

He brings the papers back to where Dean’s curled forward in an uncomfortable chair, every line of his frame screaming agony, and begins filling them out for his brother, making noises about how it won’t be long. Dean straightens enough to grab the pen and scrawl something that vaguely resembles a signature across the bottom and Sam’s privately grateful that his brother’s right-handed.

It’s been about three-quarters of an hour, thirty minutes after Sam’s submitted all the forms concerning the medical history and insurance information of one Nick Mason, when Dean lets out a low grunt, shifts his feet further apart, and pukes. That apparently sets off some kind of domino effect among the still-waiting alcohol victims and gets them shunted off to a small room down a corridor. Dean refuses a wheelchair and leans into Sam as they do a four-legged shuffle.

“Hurts,” is Dean’s only concession of complaint.

“Someone will see you soon, Mr. Mason,” the nurse says in that vague, syrupy way that could mean five minutes or five hours.

Sam wants to punch her, but instead he just gets his brother seated on the examination table. She leaves before he can ask for painkillers. He settles in for a wait.

**::: ::: :::**

“Fucking hell,” Dean whispers, _whimpers_ , tears brimming in the corners of his eyes as he lies out on the examination table once again, clearly exhausted from the hours of pain and being completely unable to find a position to escape it. The wrinkled, torn paper crackles as he draws up his knees, planting his boots on the nylon-covered padding and fixing his gaze to the ceiling. He shifts his feet restlessly, tearing new rips into the paper, straightens one of his legs. “N-nine.”

“What?” Sam leans closer, more for confirmation than anything else.

“Win-Winchester scale.” A slow, panting breath. “Nine.”

 _Oh, crap_ , Sam thinks, cringing. _Eleven. Maybe twelve_. In other words: it’s really bad and it’s pushing past Dean’s threshold of pain — especially if Dean’s mentioning their last name in earshot of anyone who might hear. Not that it’d make sense to them. “Okay, it’s gonna be okay, I’m going to find someone and see if they can give you something, all right?”

Dean shakes his head. “Gonna spew.”

Sam grimaces. “Again?” He reaches for the emesis basin with the wariness of habit. It hasn’t been incessant, with long breaks in between, but it still hasn’t been fun.

There’s a piteous nod and Dean’s face goes green. Then Sam somehow has his brother sitting up and the kidney-shaped dish under his chin just as Dean retches. This time hardly anything comes up, just air and some spit and a whole lot of strangled, pained noises.

The nurse — Sam’s grateful she isn’t the same one who dumped them in here — finds them like that; Dean curled up, trying to drag up the contents of his stomach between soft whines that are totally not cries, Sam propping him up with a shoulder, one hand cupping the basin as his free hand rubs Dean’s shoulder. Everything moves quickly after that. There’s scissors making quick work of Dean’s shirtsleeves, an injection, and then things don’t seem as bad.

Dean’s lying down again, eyes unfocused and half-lidded, as the nurse probes his shoulder, trailing gentle fingers down his arm. Dean cries out softly.

“How long?” she asks briskly and Sam likes her.

Sam glances at his wristwatch, does the math. Somehow it feels as though it should be far longer. “A little more than four hours since he busted it.” He keeps the answer vague.

“I see,” is all she says, her gaze flickering up to meet his, inviting him to elaborate. Sam clenches his jaw stonily. There was a time, once, years ago, when the tactic would’ve worked but that time is long gone.

She exhales, straightens, conceding a losing battle when she sees one. “Well, Nick,” she says, this time to Dean, reminding Sam with a jolt of the alias that he’d used. “You were right — broken arm with a dislocated shoulder.” She pauses. “You’re lucky, you know. Just the radius and it’s a simple break. You won’t need surgery and you’ll be able to go home as soon as it’s set. I’ll be back.”

True to her word she is back, this time followed by two other nurses and a cart loaded up with what Sam recognizes as materials to make a cast.

“This is going to hurt,” she warns Dean. “But there’ll be more good stuff after, okay?”

Dean nods. “Go for it.” His voice is steady but he doesn’t relinquish his hold on his elbow, still guarding his limb. His gaze flickers over to Sam and there is pain and anxiousness.

Sam goes to him, squeezes against the wall near the head of the examination table. He glances up at the nurse and, when he gets an approving nod, turns back to Dean. “I’ll be right here,” he tells his brother as the nurse closes in. He leans forward, takes his brother’s right hand into his own, easing it from the broken bone it wants to cradle and comfort. “Not going anywhere.”

There’s a snap and a simultaneous scream of agony as Dean clamps down on Sam’s hand. Sam’s pretty sure his hand is going to be bruised tomorrow if it isn’t fractured. Distantly, Sam hears the nurse reassuring them that it’s over, that the worst part is done. She talks them through the bit where the ends are realigned and the sleeve for the cast is slid up Dean’s arm to just above the elbow.

“You can let go now,” she tells Sam, giving him a soft smile, and a glance at Dean’s face tells him his brother is out for the count, or near enough to it. Sam loosens his grip and straightens. “You’re close.” It’s a comment, not a question.

“Brother,” Sam says succinctly, a safe enough answer, and doesn’t elaborate.

She smiles. “I figured. Younger, right?” The question generates a nod from Sam. The age gap between them is kind of obvious. “Well, he’s too out of it to pick what color he wants… and he’ll be stuck with it for the next six to eight or so weeks, depending how he heals up.” She gives him a sly wink. “So. Pick a color.” She gestures at the tray.

Sam looks. There’s a big roll of hot pink and Sam’s tempted, if only just for the look on Dean’s face when he comes to. But then the vision of Dean, curled up and in agony and still finishing the hunt and then puking in the waiting room rises unbidden before Sam. It wouldn’t be fair to kick his brother when he was down. Their prank wars are made of equal footing and this is as far from equal as he can figure even though Dean probably wouldn’t have been as fair if their positions’d been reversed. His gaze falls on a roll of black.

“Black,” he says. “His favorite color is black.”

The nurse grins. “You’re a noble one, aren’t you?”

**::: ::: :::**

John comes in when Sam’s still waiting for Dean to surface enough to sign his alias on the release form. He looks haggard, gaunt, as though he’s driven a couple thousand miles in a few hours. Sam hopes it’s the case. He cuts a glare at Sam; the one that tells him that he’s furious that Sam’s left the cell phone in the car and didn’t bother answering and there will be hell to pay, later. But then Dad lays his eyes on Dean. He sees the moment when the flicker of _father_ shows through hardened hunter, but it’s gone in a flash. Dad reaches out, shakes Dean’s shoulder — the one that isn’t strapped up — and Dean stirs. He’s still mostly out-of-it from the meds but he fumbles to attention.

“Easy,” John murmurs, putting a palm to his son’s chest before Dean topples off the examination table. “Let’s get you outta here, huh?” Dean nods, slides down and Sam can see he wants nothing more than to let the drugs drag him back under and to sleep everything off. But he won’t. Not in front of Dad. Dean straightens, his face setting into something unreadable. _Dad’s Little Soldier_. It would be sad if it wasn’t so damn pathetic, Dean standing there, holding himself rigid, arm bound up in a black fiberglass cast strapped to his torso. “I got your forms sorted out.” Dad’s still talking. “You’ll be out of commission and useless for the next six to eight weeks. I had to abandon the hunt because of Sam’s call.” He exhales sharply. “You got it, didn’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Sam says, hands clenching into fists at his sides. He forces them to release, tamps down his anger and hurt before Dad feeds off it and they come to a screaming match or blows. “We did.” He glances at Dean and sees his big brother’s hunched up on himself, looking for all the world like a scolded dog and Sam’s glad he didn’t rise to the nurse’s bait. “Dean did,” he adds softly.

“Good.” The word is dismissive and John exhales again. He picks up Dean’s jacket from where it’s slung over the back of Sam’s chair and drapes it around Dean’s shoulders. He hesitates, cups a hand at the back of Dean’s neck, and steers him out of the room, Sam following in tow like some kind of balloon. “Well, let’s get you to Singer’s. He’ll look after you.”

Sam sees Dean deflate and he wants to say something, to defend his brother, but Dean glares at him and there’s _don’t you fucking dare_ and _please_ swirling among the pain and drugs. Sam swallows down the hot kernel of rage and thinks of the glossy brochures and repeats the steady mantra of _Stanford_ , _Princeton_ , _Yale_ , _Brown_ that keeps him from completely losing his shit.

**Author's Note:**

>  ** _A/N2:_** Yes, a [hair tree](http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2711/4110832311_78c027c2b9.jpg) is a [real thing](http://victorianvivisection.blogspot.com/2011/04/victorian-hair-art.html)…


End file.
